Gnome-Trek: Episode 7. Into the Plague: Chapter 10

 

Space, the Bit Out There. 

These are the continuing voyages of the Flying-Brick ‘Gnome’. No. It's not actually a brick...

Chapter 10: Loches Pt 2.

Whilst writing this on day 10 of our second lockdown in France, the news has at long last come in from across the pond. Uncle Joe has finally succeeded, releasing me from staring at voting figures and percentage chances of the universe going insane. 

It is clear that there are very many happy people over there, and sadly, nearly an equal number angry. I just pray that any narcissistic tantrums will not spill over. The rest of the world has just looked on in total bemusement, and now, along with the planet itself, breathes a sigh of relief. Maybe the climate can now be saved. Maybe.

This was all still in the future as we woke from our nights sleep, including obligatory toilet break which I promised not to mention again.

Once our morning ablutions were finished, and appropriate volumes of coffee drunk, we went into the walled citadel of Loches. 

Within is a small network of streets, reminding us of Carcassonne, with a scattering of ancient buildings some still in use today. Oldest is the Keep, (Le Donjon).

This was built in the 10th century by the prolific fortress builder Count d'Anjou.

Now there's a job. 

"Hi. What do you do?"
"I'm a prolific fortress builder."
"What's a prolific fortress?"

Well, this may have been built over a thousand years ago, but even so, I was really impressed by their wifi coverage and use of digital tablet technology. Each and every room in this keep could be seen in original full detail on the provided tablet. Now that's thinking ahead.

Thinking ahead was obviously good for the Count. One of his offspring was called Henry. Henry Plantagenet. Still don't know him? He was otherwise called Henry the Third, the most powerful man in Europe at that time. You never know how your kids are going to turn out. 

Me? I've told my kids to avoid being kings or queens if at all possible. You tend to end up with red hot pokers up your bum. Two be fair, Henry III lived to the ripe old age of 65, with no pokers in sight. In those long past days, 65 really was old. Having gone passed that age, I can concur. I still eye pokers with suspicion...

View from the damp Keep over St Ours church

Within the Keep there be monsters...